


Going Home

by shadoedseptmbr



Series: Flipping Coins [11]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Gen, King Alistair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-27
Updated: 2012-04-27
Packaged: 2017-11-04 10:16:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/392739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadoedseptmbr/pseuds/shadoedseptmbr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you have to go back.  Where they have to take you in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Going Home

**Author's Note:**

> Same Fenris and Aedan. Friendlier outside perspective.

“I almost brought a refugee home with me.” King Alistair Therin confessed to his queen.

“Alistair, you brought home enough refugees to repopulate the South Reach,” Melisande Cousland chuckled. She folded away the papers she had been going over that would resupply the Vigil before she returned. 

“No. I mean, I very nearly tucked her under my cloak and popped her onto my ship and brought her home to hide her.” 

“Alistair!”

“Not like that.” He looked up from his boots, then, a little blush tingeing his ears.

“Well, I should hope not.”

“She reminded me so much of you. Big gray eyes, red hair. Shorter than you, though. Fighting a damned hopeless cause.”

Melisande twirled a sharp letter opener. “Not making this better, oh king.”

“Let me explain," Alistair added hastily, not at all worried that his wife was pointing something pointy at him. Not at all.

 

\---000---

It was something of a surprise to discover that the Champion of Kirkwall, slayer of dragons and dueller of Arishoks, (contrary to the hideous statue he had seen when he disembarked) was a curvy little duel-wielder who could have been the other half of a matched set with his Melisande. 

He’d hoped to speak with her first, but the Knight Commander had commandeered his arrival. He’d felt less cornered when confronting darkspawn. 

The good humor of his conversation with the Champion had restored his equilibrium somewhat and he had noticed the dark circles under her eyes and the general air of care-worn distraction, despite her smile and her quips. It looked like it had been a hard campaign.

He’d begun to walk up the stairs when Aeden Hawke spoke again.

“Your Majesty?”

Alistair had to turn around again at the slightly tremulous quality of that last word.

For her own part, Hawke meant to stay nonchalant about this whole ‘meeting the king’ business, no matter how much Varric had implied that this could mean a whole new avenue of income.

She had seen Cailan from a distance and heard his rallying speech. She hadn’t been at Ostagar for him or his golden armor. She’d been there for Lothering and for Ferelden and admittedly, for the pure joy of a fight with a purpose.

But here was Alistair, Warden and bastard prince. His armor was fine and polished, but it looked used. The pommel of his sword was notched. The scabbard was worn. He and his uncle seemed to have brought Ferelden into the air with them. He was funny and familiar and he seemed sane, which was rare enough these days. And he had said she’d be welcome back. Home. 

And then he was walking away. Back to a kingdom, which despite its Blight and an impending war with Orlais, was still standing. Where mages were being sheltered. Where an elf had been made Bann. Where slavers didn’t haunt every corner, because Fereldens didn’t like that sort of thing. Where the air was clean and crisp (and yes, slightly doggish) in the morning. And Alistair was going back to there and Aedan was stuck here in this city with its chokedamp and its apathetic nobles and its leaders who were about to drag all of Kirkwall into an abyss. 

She couldn’t. She just couldn’t not ask. So when Alistair turned around, only Fenris (proud and free, finally) and the knowledge that Kirkwall didn’t need to see their Champion on her knees before a foreign (her) king, kept her on her feet. 

Whatever unhidden expression was on her face made Alistair cross the distance in just two steps and take her hand, despite the clawed armor of the Champion. The elf at her back had gone rigid at the tone of her voice and when Alistair touched her, Fenris had fixed a baleful gaze on the king. Alistair, though, was still a man who had crossed Ferelden in plate, sword in hand. He could handle a glare. “My lady?”

“Do you mean it, sire?” Aedan asked quietly. “Things are about to go very wrong here. I can feel it in my bones. I will most likely be in the middle, but if I survive it…” Fenris startled behind her. “May I truly come home?”

Alistair searched her face and spoke gravely. “My Lady Hawke. It would be my honor to welcome you back to your home country. I will send word to the ports and to the gates of Denerim that you and your companions are to be admitted. At all hazard.” 

“Thank you, my lord.” She nodded simply and gave him a genuine smile that made her look too young and it was at that point that Alistair had to physically stop himself from tucking her into his shoulder, like he would have Melisande. He bowed over her hand, instead. 

“Until we meet again, then,” he said and followed Teagan back up the stairs.

 

\---000---

 

He’d been back in Ferelden for a month, when a messenger raced into the castle keep. The boy waited as Alistair and Melisande wound down their sparring. “From the Grand Cleric, sire.”

Alistair took the note, written on the heavy cream paper of the Chantry and read for a minute. “Damn.” Melisande came up to him when she saw the light go out of his face. 

“Alistair?”

“The Kirkwall Chantry has been destroyed by...an apostate. There was an attempt to Annul their Circle. Kirkwall is in flames.” Melisande wrapped her arm around his waist and he clutched her to his side. Standing together against gathering darkness. 

“ Your Hawke… is she…?”

“It doesn’t say.”


End file.
